


re:spite

by steebadore



Series: TCB (taking care of bucky) [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Daddy Kink, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Sort Of, bucky has regrets, sam has more probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 15:58:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17144744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steebadore/pseuds/steebadore
Summary: It starts, as most things do, with spite. The problem is, it doesn't end there.





	re:spite

**Author's Note:**

> this started life as a Kink Bingo fill for square O-2: daddy kink. *checks calendar* uh, obviously that didn't work out, so happy, merry, etc. here's some ridiculous fluff.
> 
> thanks to anoneknewmoose for looking this over, and apologies to the discord who've already seen every word of the funny bits.

It starts, as most things do, with spite. 

"You got your meds?" Steve asks, pawing through Bucky's duffel. "I put an extra phone charger in here just in case, and those fuzzy socks you like to sleep in. I looked up the weather and it said the low was 43, so."

Bucky rolls his eyes from the bathroom where he's gathering his toiletries and dabbing delicately at the anxious sweat prickling above his upper lip, and is just opening his mouth to tell Steve to calm his beautiful tits when Sam ruins everything. As usual.

"Jesus christ, Steve. We're just going on an overnight recon, not goddamn summer camp."

Bucky comes out of the bathroom and scowls. "Fuck off, Wilson. Don't be jealous because Steve isn't concerned about keeping _you_ warm." 

"I'm a grown ass man, I can regulate my own damn temperature, thanks," Sam says. "And I get all the mother-henning I need every Sunday at my mama's, don't need it from Captain Momerica too."

"I'm not mothering him!" Steve says indignantly, though the effect is a bit lost when he lovingly tucks a packet of tissues into Bucky's duffel.

"Uh huh," Sam says dubiously, crossing his arms and leaning back against the door jamb. "You play mommy any harder he's going to develop a complex."

And that's it, that's when it happens: the horrible idea. 

Bucky walks to Steve and hugs his waist, smacking a loud kiss on his cheek and laying his head on his shoulder. He makes sure to keep direct eye contact with Sam when he says, "oh, we much prefer playing daddy, Sam."

"Oh Christ," Sam says.

"Uh?" Steve says.

"Thanks for packing my socks, daddy," Bucky says.

"You're...welcome?" Steve's ears have gone pink and he has a look on his face like he's torn between confusion and mortification. In his pants.

"Oh, no," Sam says, shaking his head and pointing at Bucky. "No. I know what you're doing and you know what? I've just decided. I have no feelings about this. Zero. It's cool. Love is love and however you assholes choose to express it is _valid_."

Sam smiles at Bucky, all white teeth, and Bucky narrows his eyes. Alright then, Wilson. Game. On. 

**:: :: ::**

Bucky waits until he hears the _tap tap tap_ of Wilson's toothbrush on the edge of the motel sink before dialing Steve. 

"Hey, daddy," he says just as Sam opens the bathroom door. Sam pauses in the doorway and levels a startled glare at Bucky for a fraction of a second before visibly packing away his revulsion and shoving it under his brain's bed. 

"Uh, hey Buck," Steve says, and Bucky doesn't even have to fake his smile for Sam's benefit. Just hearing Steve's voice loosens something in him he hadn't noticed had gone tight and frantic until it eased. "Sam's there, I take it?"

"Yeah, we're getting ready for bed." To Sam he says, "Daddy says hi." Sam rolls his eyes but otherwise continues his nightly moisturizing routine in aggressively unbothered silence. 

Steve sighs the sigh of a man who is not going to pick sides between his de facto husband with brain damage and the best friend he left stranded in a secret underwater government prison that one time. "So...how'd it go today?" he asks instead. 

"It was okay," Bucky says. "Boring, mostly. I didn't even get to shoot anyone." He tries for light and knows he mostly fails. 

"Hey, we're starting you out easy, remember?" Steve says, his voice taking on that low and gentle tone that Bucky can't decide if he loves or hates. Or hates himself for loving. He wishes he didn't have to be handled, but that Steve seems to know instinctively how to do it feels like a bowling ball in the pit of his stomach. One that was left to warm in the sun all day and then wrapped in soft blankets and gently lowered into the center of him. It's an anchor and a burden all at once. 

"And you don't have to do this if you're not ready, honey," Steve continues. "Or ever, for that matter. You know that. You've got nothing to prove to anyone."

"Yeah," Bucky says quietly, because he doesn't want to have this same argument here, not in front of Sam. Not when there are better conversations for Sam to overhear. "So, what are you wearing, daddy?"

Sam makes a choking noise and flips over on his bed, jamming a pillow over his face. "Why is this my life," he mumbles under his breath and Bucky bites his lip to keep from cackling.

"Buck," Steve sighs. 

"Come on, I'll tell you mine."

"You don't have to tell me. I packed your bag, remember?" Steve says. "You've got on the blue pajama pants that are really soft and make your ass look fantastic, and I bet you're wearing your hoodie and those fuzzy dinosaur socks too."

Bucky wiggles his toes under the blankets and grins. "Why'd you pack my good ass pants, huh? Hoping Sam'll notice the goods?" 

"In no universe can what you got going on back there be called 'goods', Barnes," Sam grumbles from the next bed. "Looking like an unstuffed teddy bear in a pair of hand me down drawers." 

Bucky squawks out a laugh despite himself. "Pal, this ass hasn't gone unstuffed since nineteen thirty two. Ain't that right, daddy?"

Steve laughs obnoxiously in his ear, and Bucky watches several emotions play over Sam's face: dismay to regret to what might be shame for leaving that joke wide open, but it all resolves into smug blankness as Sam deliberately closes his eyes and lays back down on his pillow. Damnit.

"Congrats on your healthy sex life, guys," he says neutrally—or as neutral as someone can sound through gritted teeth. "Now please shut the fuck up and go to bed. We've got evac in six hours."

There's a shuffling noise through the phone, fabric rustling like Steve's getting into bed too, and Bucky snuggles deeper into his own blankets. They're a little scratchy and they smell like bleach—which, as motels go, is a blessing—but the need to be back home in his own bed with Steve cuddled up behind him like the world's largest and handsiest hot water bottle is suddenly a physical ache in his chest.

"Goodnight, Buck," Steve says. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Night," Bucky says, wincing when it comes out small and pathetic. 

"You okay?" Steve asks softly.

"Yeah," Bucky says. "Just didn't think about it—the sleeping part."

"I know, Buck," Steve says, his voice slow and sleepy and Bucky can picture him so well: laying on his back in their big, soft bed, one giant ham hock of an arm crooked behind his head. If Bucky were there he'd be sprawled across that big body, feeling warm and safe and home in a way that nothing else ever has. "Bed feels too big without you starfishing across it."

"Sea star," Bucky corrects automatically. 

"Sorry, forgot I was talking to Bucky fuckin Attenborough," Steve deadpans.

"Fuck off, Blue Planet is very soothing," Bucky says, and then: "Don't get used to all that space, Rogers." 

"Never," Steve says, and it's weighted like a promise. "You want me to stay on the phone until you fall asleep?"

What is this feeling that wells up in him every time Steve does this—identifies what Bucky needs and offers it up, knowing Bucky will never find the words to ask for it himself. Is it relief or frustration to be so seen, so easily handled when he's too weak to refuse what's given, even knowing it's more than he deserves to take. 

"Yeah," Bucky says and closes his eyes, letting the sound of Steve's even breaths in his ear lull him to sleep, and hating himself a little bit for needing it.

**:: :: ::**

When they complete their overnight intel mission without Sam breaking even once—not even when Steve called him on their way home and Sam got an earful of his _Father Figure_ ringtone echoing through the empty quinjet—Bucky knows he has to up his game. But nothing works. 

Sam rolls his eyes but doesn't comment when Bucky asks Steve to cut up his pancakes for him at their favorite brunch spot, not even when Steve dips his napkin in his water glass to help clean the syrup off Bucky's metal hand. He just glares and walks down a different aisle so as not to be seen with them when Bucky asks Steve for a piggyback ride through the farmer's market, and only flinches a little when Bucky loudly requests "Disney, daddy!" for their movie night, falls asleep in Steve's lap halfway through and has to be carried to the car like a toddler. And it's… nice, actually, but it's not getting the job done. 

So clearly Bucky has no choice but to go for the nuclear option. 

He's ready when the door buzzer goes off on Sunday, snagging the hat he's been hiding in the bottom drawer of their dresser and shoving it on Steve's head on his way to the front door.

"What?" Steve splutters and then does a double take when he catches sight of Bucky's outfit. " _What_."

"I got you a present, daddy," Bucky says, and flings the door open. 

"Oh god," Sam says, his jaw actually going slack and his hand spasming at his side like he's trying to fight the urge to cover his eyes. He takes a deep, calming breath and looks directly into Bucky eyes and nowhere else. "Okay, this is fine. I'm fine with this. This is good. Self-expression is good for you, Barnes." He pauses as though to gather his strength. "But please tell me you are not wearing this shit in public where regular god-fearing folks will have to see it with their own two eyeballs."

"What's wrong with my outfit? They're gym clothes," Bucky says, looking down at himself with wide, innocent eyes. "Daddy, tell him my clothes are fine."

Bucky looks over his shoulder, expecting to see the fondly exasperated expression that's taken up residence on Steve's face these last couple weeks. Instead he finds Steve's eyes trained on his backside, currently hugged by a pair of tiny red shorts with DADDY'S screen printed over the curve of his ass. Bucky smirks and turns around fully, watching Steve's eyes travel from his crotch to his bare midriff, up to the two sizes too small gray sleeveless hoodie with the words BABY stretching desperately over his wide chest. 

"Uh," Steve says, his face turning a delicate shade of magenta. "You look-you look real good, Buck. I like your…" He swallows hard. "Sweater?"

"Thanks," Bucky says, preening and shooting Sam a pleased look over his shoulder. "Do you like your hat?"

Steve fumbles for the hat he's clearly forgotten he was even wearing, and huffs a laugh when he reads it. "Number one daddy, huh?" he says, grinning. "You got so many you need to rank them now?"

"Just want everyone to know I got the best." Bucky smacks a kiss on Steve's cheek and tries not to lean into it when Steve wraps his arm around his waist and squeezes gently, his fingers brushing over the bare skin of Bucky's back. They're due at the tower in forty minutes for combat training with the team, and fucking with Sam is enough distraction as it is. 

Sam groans. "Seriously?" he says, his voice as dry and prickly as Steve's elbows. "Steve, do not tell me you're actually into this, man. Come _on_."

Steve shrugs, his meaty shoulder grinding against Bucky's face. "I'm into Bucky. If he wanted me to put on a wig and be his Aunt Franny I'd say 'is that the one with the mole or the lazy eye' and then I'd fucking do it. And I'd like it."

Bucky straightens slowly, unsure why that answer made all his insides go soft and pliant like pulled taffy. "Franny was the one with the missing teeth and the porcelain clown collection," he says, just to see Steve physically recoil. 

"N-no," Steve says, horrified. "Not that." And then to Sam: "See? Boundaries."

Sam glares skeptically. "So clowns are out but a grown ass man wearing this getup and calling you daddy in public is cool? You know it's a sex thing right, Steve?"

Steve slaps his hands to his cheeks and feigns a look of horror. "Oh no, a _sex thing_? Gee whiz, mister."

Bucky makes his eyes wide. "Sam, please tell us more about how fucking works in the twenty-first century. Crisco is still fine to stick up my ass, right?"

Sam visibly pales. "Barnes, what—no," he splutters, and then shakes his head as though to clear a particularly offensive mental image. "Steve, I'm just saying, you know he's trolling you too, right?"

Steve shrugs. "Bucky can troll me like this all day long," he says, dropping a kiss on Bucky's temple and curling an arm around his bare waist. Bucky doesn't even have to see Steve's face to know he's smirking like an asshole. "I like taking care of him, and before you started this he hardly ever let me. So I guess I should be thanking you, Sam."

"Oh no, I did not start this. Don't you put this nonsense on me, Steve. This is all your boy."

Bucky smirks. "If it makes you uncomfortable, just say the word, Sam."

"The whole point of this bullshit is that it makes me uncomfortable!" Sam says, throwing up his hands and glaring at Steve. "I thought that I could count on my friend to back me up here in my time of need, but I guess not."

"Well, I can't be your daddy too, Sam," Steve says.

Sam slumps in defeat. "I hate you both. I'm just gonna go downstairs and make an appointment with my therapist real quick," he says, turning toward the door.

"Fuck, I love you," Bucky cackles as soon as the door closes behind him. Steve's arm tightens around him, hugging him close as he leans down to brush a kiss against Bucky's neck.

"You know I meant it though, right?" Steve says. "About taking care of you. I like it."

Bucky stiffens and pulls away. "Don't need you to. My brains aren't as fried as they used to be, pal."

"Doesn't mean I don't still enjoy doing it, though," Steve says easily, looking at Bucky like he wants to wrap him in fourteen hand-knit blankets and hand feed him girl scout cookies for the next several years. And look, that doesn't sound terrible, exactly, but it's not as if Bucky's earned that kind of treatment. Not yet. Seventy years of horrors cannot be undone by some good intentions and one (1) intel mission. Bucky's got a long way to go before he can let himself have that.

So what he needs to do is focus. No more fucking around. He's got to get through these training exercises, prove to the team he's ready to be out in the field for real. And maybe in another seventy years or so he'll have earned the right to be babied by Steve. 

"I'm gonna go get changed," he says. 

Steve almost looks disappointed. "Oh, you're not gonna wear that?"

Bucky shrugs. "Too tight, limits my flexibility."

"Cute though," Steve says with a grin.

"Yeah, well. Cute's not gonna kill any nazis," Bucky says. 

"Okay, Buck," Steve says with a sigh, and pats his ass. "Go get changed, we're gonna be late."

Bucky stalks away before he loses his resolve, and tries not to feel like Steve is humoring him. 

**:: :: ::**

Three weeks later, Bucky gets his wish. He takes down a Hydra cell with Romanov and Stark, shooting a couple dozen nazi fucks through the knees and burning down a warehouse full of god knows what kind of nightmare fuel. It feels right. It feels like vindication. It feels like justice. 

And once the red haze of adrenaline burns off, it feels fucking awful. He might be wearing less leather and eyeliner, might be playing for a different team with a different set of rules, but he's still using the same tactics Hydra burned into him. Does the intention matter when as soon as he's got a gun in his hand and a target in his scope, his brain flattens and empties until he might as well be the asset, complying with orders? 

It's too much for him to parse when his hands still smell of gun oil and soot, even after he scrubbed in the showers until he thought his skin might peel off. When he gets home to see Steve lounging on the couch with a book, feigning nonchalance like he hasn't been pacing the floor like a caged lion on steroids waiting for Bucky to get home, all the resistance drains out of him. Without a word, he climbs over Steve to wedge himself in the small space between the back of the couch and Steve's big body, and pulls on Steve's arm until he's draped over him like the world's most expensive government-issue weighted blanket, irradiated for maximum warmth. 

"Better?" Steve asks, running a big, heavy hand down Bucky's back. Bucky nods, which mostly means rubbing his suddenly wet face over the soft fabric stretching obscenely over Steve's chest. "Nat said you did well out there." Shrug. "You want to talk about it?" Negative. "Okay, pal."

They stay like that for a long moment, still and quiet, until the words vomit out of Bucky's mouth without his permission. "What if I wanted it for real?"

Steve's hand pauses on his back. "Wanted what, Buck?"

"The...daddy stuff. You taking care of me," he says. "Would that be bad?"

Steve's exhale is loud and obnoxious against Bucky's ear. "Why would it be bad, honey? I told you already I like it when you let me be sweet on you."

Bucky shrugs, feeling his face crumple preemptively when he whispers, "maybe I don't deserve it, not yet. Haven't done enough good yet to earn being that happy."

Steve's hands tighten on him reflexively. "No one has to earn the right to be happy, Buck. Especially not you." He sighs, pressing a kiss to Bucky's hair. "Besides, it's not like this is anything new between us. I've been trying to take care of you since we were kids, baby."

Bucky lifts his head finally, frowning. "I think you got that backwards, pal. I got some real clear, ironclad memories of the opposite." He remembers that time after the funeral, those words. Thinking he didn't know if he wanted to hug Steve or sock him in the mouth for being such a fuckin martyr.

Steve rolls his eyes. "Yeah, and do you also remember that time when you and your whole family came down with the flu?"

He rifles through his mental file cabinets for the memory, but they're full of worn manila folders labeled things like The Specific Feeling of Ma's Soup Going Down On A Cold Day, and Braiding Dark Baby-Fine Hair, and The Smell of Charcoal And Sweat Oh God, but there's nothing inside them. Just placeholders where the real memories should be. 

"This seems like a shitty story, Rogers."

"You want to hear it or not?"

Bucky shrugs, settling his head back down on Steve's chest. 

"Good choice," Steve says in that voice that makes even the faintest praise sink right down into Bucky's bones. "So, I guess we were about fourteen and you and your ma and sisters were all down with the flu, and of course my ma made me swear up and down I'd stay away from you until you were better, for obvious reasons."

"I'm guessing this story doesn't end with you listening to your ma for once in your goddamn life and not doing anything reckless," Bucky mumbles.

"Just hush," Steve says. "Ma promised you were going to be fine, but by the time the fourth day rolled around I was getting antsy. It was the first time we'd been apart for more than a couple days in as far back as I could remember, and I was starting to feel a little cooped up without you."

"You missed me," Bucky says knowingly. 

"Yeah, Buck," Steve says, voice plain, like that's a given. 

Bucky doesn't know why that lights him up, but it does. In that life, little hobbit-sized tough guy Stevie Rogers missed him after a couple days, and in this life heroic enormous meat slab Steve Rogers misses him after a couple hours. Everything else about them changed, but this— _Steve wanting him_ —remains a constant. 

"So after my ma went to work I made a big pot of soup, figuring if I said she'd sent me over with it you guys would have to let me in. Only we didn't have any potatoes or onions, or even a chicken bone, so I just boiled up a bunch of cabbage with some salt and figured it'd be good enough."

"Oh god," Bucky laughs. "The stench alone would probably have revived me."

"So I haul this pot of soup the three blocks over to your house," Steve continues, laugh barely concealed, "and it's November and the middle of the night at this point, and the pot is so heavy I feel like my arms are about to fall off by the time I get to the end of my street, so it feels like it takes me two fuckin years to get there. And no one answers the door. So I figure I'll just come in through the fire escape—you remember how the latch to the kitchen window was always broken because you used to sneak out so much?"

Something about that pings in Bucky's memory. "You...you fell. Busted your face."

Steve huffs out a laugh. "Tripped on the damn stairs, cracked my head on the railing and spilled the soup all over me. Luckily it took me so damn long to walk there that the soup had cooled, so I didn't scald my balls right off on top of splitting my head open. I'm still surprised I didn't wake up the whole damn neighborhood with the clatter, but I snuck in the window and made it to your room without anyone catching me."

"Oh good, what luck no one saw the minor with the _actively bleeding head injury_ ," Bucky grumbles. "You know, this explains so much about your choices—"

"Shut up and let me finish, Buck," Steve says, his voice gone low and gravelly in a way that lights Bucky up and settles him down at the same time. "You'd thrown your blankets off and stripped down to your skivvies and were in this miserable shivering ball in the middle of your bed. And probably it was the brain injury because god knows it'd never crossed my mind before or since, but it was like the moon was shining through your window just to light you up for me. Never wanted to draw something so bad in my life."

Bucky hides his grin in Steve's neck. What a fucking sap. "Idiot."

"Exactly," Steve agrees, running his fingers through Bucky's damp hair. "I was starting to feel a little lightheaded by then, so I laid down beside you and pulled the covers over us both. You snuggled into me and sighed my name so sweet in your sleep I thought my soul was gonna leave my body right there, Buck. That was it for me, that moment. Bleeding all down my face with my bum heart stumbling in my chest. Knew I wanted to spend the whole rest of my life taking care of your dumb ass. 'Course your ma walking in a few minutes later and screaming blue murder kind of ruined the moment."

Bucky laughs, the memory coming back to him all at once. "'Steven Grant Rogers, you scared me half to hell!'" he mimics. "'Smelling like the devil and bloody as the day you were born.' She thought you were a tiny demon come to drag her ailing son away to hell. Guess she wasn't wrong."

Steve's laugh vibrates through Bucky's whole body, warm and full. "Point is, Buck, I've spent my whole life trying to take care of you. It's hardly ever been easy, but it's always been worth it. And if you're finally ready to just give in and let me do it right after eighty years of trying, I don't see anything wrong with that."

Bucky lets the idea of that roll through him, testing its shape for sharp edges or jagged corners. But it just slots nicely into that space between his ribs where he hoards all the good things he doesn't feel like he should be allowed to keep. "Okay, daddy," he says.

**Author's Note:**

> this was meant to be all jokes jokes jokes but got real sappy real fast. let's blame the holiday, okay?


End file.
